I have always been
Your Black-White Witch
And always have
Appalled you.
You, the Corn Child,
But a babe,
Not ready yet
For mating,
Must be sheared again,
Go underground
To come back stronger.
But restless I
Prowl at the mouth
Of Hell, marveling
At such deep sleep,
Unripe persimmon
At that foolish
Jealous clasp
Of Persephone*
Upon your Aurum limbs,
So bound the
Brooding shoots
May never burst forth.
Now my pacing
Doubles, ’til I
Flee your brewing
Faulted terrain
In search of
Golden Boughs,
Full flowered and
Light suspended
‘Twixt sky and earth.**
Where will I be,
I wonder,
When and if
You finally find
The force of
All that fertile
Seething promise:
. . . And I am gone;
Mistletoe clings
To new oak sapling.